Dilly Court - The Christmas Card - The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller

Alice ran the comb through Flora’s tangle-free hair. ‘There you are. Now you’re presentable.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘We should go downstairs to see your mama.’

‘Do you believe me?’ Flora turned to face her. ‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? They all think I’m a liar.’

‘No, I don’t think you’re making it up,’ Alice said slowly. ‘But I’d like to speak to your uncle. Does he come here often?’

‘Not often enough. I love Uncle Rory. He makes me laugh.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘You won’t tell Mama what I said, will you? She won’t like it.’

‘Of course not. It will be our secret.’ Alice held out her hand. ‘You’ll have to show me where we will find Mrs Dearborn. I don’t know where to go.’

The drawing room was a complete contrast to the nursery. It was furnished in the latest style and it did not take an expert to see that no expense had been spared. Alice would not have been surprised to see price tickets hanging from the opulent velvet upholstery of the chairs and sofa. The smell of the showroom still lingered, despite the bowls of potpourri placed on highly polished mahogany side tables, and the vases of hothouse chrysanthemums affordable only by the wealthiest in society. Alice felt her feet sinking into the thick pile of the Aubusson carpet, and each movement she made was reflected in one or more of the gilt-framed mirrors that adorned the walls.

Mrs Dearborn was handsome in an austere way, and elegantly dressed in the height of fashion. Pearl drops dangled from her ears and strands of pearls were hung around her slender neck. She was seated in a wingback chair by the fire with an embroidery hoop in her hand, although she did not seem to have progressed very far with the complicated pattern. She shot a wary glance at Flora. ‘Sit down, child. Don’t just stand there.’ She turned her attention to Alice, looking her up and down with a critical gaze. ‘So you are Mrs Radcliffe’s niece?’

Alice inclined her head. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘They might have found you a better garment to wear.’ Mrs Dearborn raised a lorgnette, peering at the ripped shoulder seam. ‘You cannot go round looking like a ragbag, Radcliffe.’

‘I’ll see to it, Mrs Dearborn.’ Inwardly seething, Alice made an effort to sound submissive.

‘Stop fidgeting, Flora.’ Mrs Dearborn put her embroidery aside, glaring at her daughter. ‘Have you been behaving properly this morning? Radcliffe will tell me if you’ve been a naughty girl.’

‘Miss Flora has been a model child,’ Alice said quickly. ‘I think we will do very well together.’ The words tumbled from her lips before she had time to think, but she had taken an instant dislike to Mrs Dearborn, who might have been a beauty had it not been for her dissatisfied expression. Her thin lips hinted at a discontented nature, and this was borne out by the twin furrows on her forehead, which created a permanent frown.

Flora shot Alice a puzzled glance, as if amazed to think that an adult would stand up for her, and for once she seemed to have nothing to say.

‘You surprise me,’ Mrs Dearborn said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Flora needs a firm hand. My husband spoils her and she thinks that she can do as she pleases, but the sooner she learns to behave properly the better.’

‘May I ask you a question, Mrs Dearborn?’ Alice moved closer, lowering her voice. ‘Why was it thought necessary to lock Miss Flora in her room? Surely it’s frightening for a young child to be treated so harshly?’

Mrs Dearborn leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. ‘If you are to work for me you will not question my authority. Is that clear?’

The temptation to tell Mrs Dearborn that she would not be accepting the position in her household was almost too great, but one glance in Flora’s direction was enough to convince her otherwise. Whether or not she was the daughter of the house was immaterial. Whether it was true or just a story made up by a lonely little girl, Alice could not simply walk away. She nodded. ‘Perfectly clear, ma’am.’ Even as she spoke she felt small fingers curling around her hand. She gave them an encouraging squeeze.

‘You said we could have a Christmas tree, Mama,’ Flora said slyly. ‘I promise to be very good.’

‘I’m not sure that you deserve anything at all for Christmas,’ Mrs Dearborn said stiffly. ‘Mrs Upton tells me that you attempted to leave the house again yesterday. Hoskins had to chase you round the square twice before he caught you.’

‘I was going home.’ Flora squared her small shoulders, meeting her mother’s angry gaze with a toss of her head. ‘You don’t really want me. You only bring me down here to show me off when your friends are visiting.’

For a moment it seemed that Flora had gone too far. The look on Mrs Dearborn’s face was a mixture of chagrin and rage. ‘Take the child back to the nursery, Radcliffe. You have my permission to chastise her as you see fit.’ She rose to her feet. ‘And you, Flora Dearborn, will apologise or you will not have Christmas at all. There will be no tree and definitely no presents. I’ll tell your father and he will agree with me, so don’t think you can get round him.’ She slumped down on her seat, mopping her brow with a lace handkerchief. ‘Ring the bell on your way out, Radcliffe. I feel quite faint and in need of my smelling salts.’

Alice seized Flora by the hand and left the room, pausing to tug at the bell pull on the way out.

‘Why did you say that, Flora? You can see that you’ve upset your mama.’

‘She isn’t my mama. I told you that, Radcliffe.’ Flora stamped her foot and marched off towards the staircase.

Alice hurried after her. ‘You and I need a serious talk if I’m to stay on here, Flora.’

‘See if I care.’ Flora took the stairs two at a time, reaching the third floor well ahead of Alice. She slammed the nursery door.

In no mood for childish tantrums, Alice followed her inside. ‘Sit down, miss,’ she said firmly. ‘Stop behaving like that or you’ll hurt yourself.’

‘So what if I do?’ Flora cried angrily. ‘Nobody cares except Papa, and he’s not here most of the time, and he doesn’t always listen to me. He just pats me on the head and gives me whatever I ask for. The only one who does hear what I have to say is Uncle Rory.’

‘I’d like to meet your uncle,’ Alice said, choosing her words carefully. ‘He sounds nice.’

Flora came to a halt, looking up at her with a sudden sparkle in her blue eyes. ‘He is nice, and he’s funny.’ She threw herself down on the bed, beating the pillow with her small fists. ‘Now I won’t get any presents or a tree. Papa promised me a tree with candles on it and tinsel, like last year.’ She began to sob, her whole body racked by intense emotion.

Alice sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Flora’s wildly curling hair back from her damp forehead. ‘I’m sure it was said in the heat of the moment. If you apologise to your mama it will all be forgotten.’

Flora raised a tear-stained face to look up at her. ‘She won’t forget. She’s mean.’

‘Wipe your eyes and I’ll help you write a note to your mama. You could do a little drawing for her. I know you’re good at that because I’ve seen some of your sketches.’

‘I draw what I see in my nightmares.’ Flora sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I’ll draw her as a witch.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Alice said hastily. She rose to her feet and went to the washstand to dip a flannel in cold water. Having wrung it out she used it to wipe Flora’s hot cheeks. ‘It would be better to draw something to remind her that it’s the season of peace and goodwill,’ she said slowly. ‘Perhaps some holly and ivy or mistletoe would be nice, and a little note from you saying you’re very sorry.’